


A Marksman's Ability

by storieswelove



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Ambiguous Character Death, F/M, He isn't the only one, M/M, Most Dangerous Game AU, Non-Graphic Violence, Patrick is a hunter, You've been warned, but if you wouldn't read a serial killer AU - don't read this, like no gore whatsoever, pre-story character death, this one is a doozy folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/pseuds/storieswelove
Summary: There’s a tree line twenty feet up the shore, and he drags himself there to get under the shade of a tree before the sun gets strong.Just before he passes out, he sees what looks like a building off in the distance, but before he can consider what it might be, he’s asleep.He sleeps so deeply, he never hears the screams.*Patrick, an accomplished hunter, heads off on an around-the-world trip in search of answers and excitement.He gets more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Theodore "Ted" Mullens/Alexis Rose
Comments: 31
Kudos: 37
Collections: Schitt’s Creek Sports Fest





	A Marksman's Ability

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSportsFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSportsFest) collection. 



> The prompt was, "If you can count points, it's a sport!" 
> 
> And so, here we are. 
> 
> Title from "The World Was Wide Enough" by Lin Manuel Miranda, off of the _Hamilton_ soundtrack. 
> 
> In case you, like myself, do not read tags, please heed my warning: if you don't know the plot of "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, and are easily (or honestly, not all that easily) creeped out, I'd suggest Googling it to be sure this is for you. 
> 
> And for anyone reading: I'm sorry, you're welcome, and please enjoy.

He meets her when he’s in Malaysia, trying to catch sailfish in Kuala Rompin. 

Patrick doesn’t know why he’d agreed to follow his fishing companion, Rob — who he’d only known for a few of days — to a resort where Rob is meeting some friends, except that he’d promised himself when he packed his life into two bags and got on the first international flight he could book, that he was going to be a Yes Man. 

He’s been traveling the world for a year and a half doing the only thing he was good at — hunting. Argali in Kyrgyzstan, Anatolian Chamois in Turkey, Black Rhinoceros in Namibia, and even Big Horn Sheep in Montana, where the permits required $300,000 and his connections to the wealthiest hunters in the world. 

Sometimes he got bored of shooting, so he fished. He spent weeks in Nova Scotia fishing for a Pacific Bluefin Tuna, and a month fishing for Goliath Tigerfish in the Congo. 

So he says yes to Rob, and they drive two hours into the jungle to a resort in the mountains. 

She’s the first thing he notices when he walks into the villa. She’s in a flowing white dress and she looks…ethereal. 

Rob walks him around the room and introduces him to everyone — it’s more people than Patrick can count. They get to her last. 

“And this,” Rob says with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, “is Alexis. Alexis, this is Patrick Brewer — he’s Canadian too. Big hunting champion there.” 

Alexis perks up at  _ hunting champion _ . They usually do. 

“Well,” she says, lowering her sunglasses to get a better look at him. “Aren’t you just the cutest thing. It’s really nice to meet you, Patrick.” She bats her lashes a little and holds out a limp wrist that must be for a handshake, but looks like it belongs in a mediocre CBC movie about a Victorian monarch, offering her hand to be kissed. He shakes it, and she layers a second hand on top. She holds on for way too long. 

Rob proceeds to tell Alexis about Patrick’s hunting prowess. “I wasn’t there to see it, but Patrick apparently reeled in a 100 pounder on his second day,” he says, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. 

Patrick smiles. He knows Rob is trying to talk him up to Alexis; he wishes he wouldn’t. 

Alexis is beautiful, in the way Rachel had been: effortless and bright, with kind eyes and a warm smile. It’s obvious why everyone is drawn to her, just like they had been drawn to Rachel. 

It hadn’t worked on Patrick then; it certainly wasn’t going to work now. 

That was the one thing Patrick  _ had  _ found on his aimless trip around the world— answers. In the end, it had made fleeing home worth it, realizing he was gay. Now he’d flirted with men and kissed men and had sex with men and he was starting to maybe feel like a whole person. 

“So what brings you all the way out into the jungle, Patrick?” Alexis asks him once he’s freed his hand from her clutches. 

“Oh, you know, just traveling. Took some time off, thought I’d try a new sport.” 

It’s mostly true. 

“Well, I am just  _ so _ happy you decided to join us,” she says, her voice almost a purr, and Patrick has never been as sure he’s gay as he is in this moment. 

Still, they hit it off immediately, slipping into a companionable, if sometimes unpredictable, friendship; the kind that Patrick sorely misses. It’s maybe the only thing he misses about home.

The more time he spends with her, the more he’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Except Alexis isn’t a flame; she’s wildfire, blazing a path and taking everyone and everything with her in her wake. 

So when she suggests they all make their way to Borneo, because she’s “had enough of the bugs and the trees,” he doesn’t hesitate. 

Plus, he’s ready to leave Malaysia. He’d had fun sailfishing, but he picked it up too quickly. It isn’t even a brag — he’s bored of being bored. 

He follows her on to Phucket next — even though Klair, Jenna, and Albany are tagging along with the group, and they make Patrick want to drill holes in his brain — and then to Palawan for “just the bluest beaches you’ve ever seen,” according to Alexis — and of course she’s right, the water is stunning — and so on, hopping from place to place for weeks, until he’s taken what might be the longest hunting break of his life.

They’re on the jet, mid-flight to Moyo Island — Stavros has rented out the Amanwana villa, but there are multiple Stavros, and Patrick has no idea which one — when Alexis leans forward in her seat and rests a delicate hand on his knee. “Patrick, you’re not like, newly married or anything, right?” 

His neck flushes a little, reminders of Rachel still difficult to swallow, but he shakes his head. 

Alexis flashes her sparkling smile, something a little predatory in the glint of her eye. “Great. Because you know who you’d be just  _ perfect  _ for?”

And Patrick is opening his mouth to tell her  _ oh, no thanks, I’m not really interested in _ —when she cuts him off before he can start. 

“My brother.” 

_ Oh _ . 

Well. 

Okay. 

Alexis settles back, face set so delicately he wonders if he imagined the look, and says, “He’s meeting us tonight. He can be kind of a lot, but you’re just such a sweet button, I’m sure you’ll get along great.” 

Patrick doesn’t know what to say, but their conversation is cut short by Klair calling out to the entire cabin. “Oh my god, you guys, they found Sebastien in Turks and Caicos — he’s dead.” 

Alexis’s head whips around, and when she looks back at Patrick, her face is dark.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned. 

She arranges her face in a careful smile, then, and nods. “Mhm. I’m fine. It’s sad...but we weren’t really that close?” She stands to go join the group huddled around Klair’s phone, and boops Patrick’s nose as she walks away. 

*

He  _ is _ a lot, Alexis was right, but she was also right that they’d click immediately. By the second day, they’re inseparable, talking late into the night about books and music and David’s aversion to sports. 

In fairness, Patrick thinks, David is so handsome, all raven-dark hair and long legs and perfect skin, that it might not have mattered if he was as boring as a long-winded Sunday mass. But he isn’t. He’s big and loud and has opinions on  _ everything _ , and he’s not afraid to argue his point. 

“They’re just hideous shoes! Who wears mountaineering shoes on a  _ beach _ ?” David says on the third day, voice dripping with disgust, open palm pointed accusingly at Patrick’s well-worn REI boots. 

“Maybe someone who enjoys hiking and is only a 20 minute walk from a trail?” Patrick asks innocently. 

David scoffs, looking at the shoes as if he might contract some hideous disease if he gets too close, but he still spends the day practically pressed to Patrick’s side. 

What draws Patrick in and keeps him close, he realizes, is that David just...exists, takes up so much room as himself. He speaks with his entire body, hands and arms and chest and head darting and swaying and swishing as he talks. It’s hypnotizing. Dressed in monochrome while everyone else flashes colors, David is like a beacon on a moonless night, the only thing Patrick can see for miles. 

And he wears sweaters –  _ sweaters! _ — on the sweltering island in the evenings.

“It’s the bugs!” he says defensively when Patrick finally asks about it. 

They’ve been in Indonesia for five days, and Patrick has been hanging around with Alexis for a month, and still he knows almost nothing about the siblings — not even a last name. Patrick has figured out, in the months that he’s been traveling, privacy is key. Fewer details, fewer connections, fewer commitments, fewer problems. Maybe it was a sharp overcorrection, but he’d come on this trip to free himself from the suffocating weight of his life. From an impending marriage, from a national title he had to defend, from a stifling monotony he hadn’t known how to get out from under — until the day he broke up with his partner of fifteen years, bought a flight to Amsterdam, threw some clothes in a suitcase and never looked back. 

So he knows David and Alexis 1) are Canadian 2) are obscenely wealthy, and 3) are polar opposites. 

“I’m just  _ saying _ ,” David says, arms outstretched in front of him, hands taking complex twists and turns while they add subtitles to his narration. “That you can’t just start charades and then decide five minutes later that you’re bored!  _ This _ is why I don’t play games with my sister.” 

David and Alexis had gotten into a fight. Patrick had asked David to take a walk when Alexis got the room to take shots every time the vein in David’s eye twitched. 

“Mmmhmm, I hear you, David.” 

David stops and turns to him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, but his mouth is twisted into a grin and Patrick can tell he’s not the least bit apologetic. “Am I boring you?” 

“Well, you have complained about charades like eight times in twelve minutes,” he says, looking down at a nonexistent watch on his arm. 

“I see,” David says, still smirking. “And what would you like to talk about?” 

Patrick has been trying to work up the nerve to  _ do _ something instead of just  _ saying _ something, but his brain just sputters every time he tries.  __

“Well,” Patrick says, and they’re standing awfully close and he just cannot think of words while he’s eye level with David’s mouth. 

And then David’s mouth is smoothing out into something softer, more tender, and before Patrick registers what’s happening, David has grabbed the back of his head and is kissing him, slow and sweet, and Patrick might never leave Indonesia, may never leave this resort, may never leave this very spot, if it means David will keep kissing him like this forever. 

*

They barely leave David’s room after that. Patrick gives up hunting and fishing for sex and jokes. He’s never been happier. 

Days stretch into weeks, and they remain inseparable. Patrick thinks maybe he’s figured out the meaning of paradise. 

The only real disturbance, through all of this, is that David and Alexis seem to be fighting with increasing frequency and vitriol. It’s always in private, but there’s only so much privacy in a mostly open-air villa. 

Especially when David and Alexis don’t seem to understand the concept of whispering. 

*

_ “No, David, I took Ibiza and Turks and Caicos. You owe me.”  _

_ “I owe you? Are we just going to pretend the Galapagos didn’t happen? Because I seem to remember—”  _

_ “The Galapagos was different and you know it.”  _

_ “Yeah, it was, and I did it anyway, which is why I don’t owe you anything.”  _

_ “David—”  _

_ “I’m not doing it, Alexis!” _

* 

It turns out, privacy has an expiration date when you spend every waking — and sleeping — moment with someone. Eventually, pillow talk draws the secrets out. 

“I still haven’t told my parents I’m gay,” Patrick says one night, staring up at the ceiling, David’s head curled into his side. “I’m terrified. I know they’re good people but…” He trails off. 

David is silent for so long that Patrick thinks he might be asleep. When he finally lowers his gaze, David is staring at him, face soft and eyes shining. “Coming out is...very personal. You should only do it on your terms. You don’t have to tell them ever, if you don’t want. Or,” he says, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “You can do what I did, and bring home the couple you’re dating and tell your family to deal with it.” 

Patrick laughs. After a few seconds, he asks, “So your parents, they’re fine with it?” 

“They were, yeah,” David says a little more quietly. It’s David's turn to look at the ceiling. 

“Oh, shit, David, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—was it a long time ago?” He doesn’t know why he asks that, except he’s fumbling in the dark to keep this big and scary conversation from imploding. It feels important, maybe. It’s been a long time since anything felt important. 

“Um, more than a decade now,” David says, and he laughs, hollow and watery. “My mom um, ate a bad crow? She was in Bosnia with my dad. It sounds fucking ridiculous — who even eats crow? And then dad...there was a freak accident, not long after.” His voice is hard and bitter, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. 

“Oh, god, David.” He reaches over with his right arm and wraps it across David’s stomach, tucking his head in on top of David’s. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Patrick can tell he’s still crying. 

“I know,” Patrick says, and holds David until his breath evens out. 

*

Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night a week later, and crawls out of bed to get some water. The pitcher is by an open window in the far corner of the room, and he hears David and Alexis arguing in hushed whispers just outside. Patrick hasn’t turned the light on, so they must not realize he’s up. Idle curiosity keeps him rooted in place. 

“David, stop being a baby. We’ve done this like a thousand times.I need your help.” 

“This isn’t a fake passport and some colored contacts, Alexis.” 

“I  _ know _ , but it’s not like you’ve never done this before, David! I didn’t hear you complaining about Santorini. And it’s too late to back out now. She already knows!” 

“Okay, and whose fault is that? I told you, I have a solution—”

“I just don’t get what’s different this time.”

“You know what it is. Don’t make me say it.” 

“You’re just being emotional—”

“ _ Emotional _ ?! Oh, okay, so you wouldn’t mind if Ted—” 

“ _ Stop _ , David. Don’t.” 

“I’m done, Alexis.” 

Patrick realizes belatedly that David has stormed off in the direction of their front door, and just barely makes it back into bed before David has passed the entryway. Patrick pretends to be asleep when David crawls into bed, making a show of groggily opening his eyes.

“Hey,” he says sleepily, watching as the hard lines on David’s face melt away.

“Hey,” David whispers back, wiggling his body closer to Patrick’s. David kisses him softly. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” David says, and Patrick isn’t sure if he hears the strain, or just imagines it after hearing the fight. David rubs one of Patrick’s shoulders with his hand, tips their foreheads together, and kisses him one more time. “I’m going to take a shower.” This time, Patrick is sure the crack he hears in David’s voice is real. 

Patrick tries to lighten the mood. “Want me to join you?” 

David huffs a laugh, and now Patrick can see that his eyes are shining with tears. “No, go back to sleep. I’ll be back to bed soon.” 

Patrick does fall asleep, listening to the water run, but David never comes back to bed. Patrick wakes up at sunrise to find that all of David’s things have disappeared from the room, and in their place, he hasn’t even left a note. 

Alexis makes up a weak excuse for her brother, but she doesn’t try to stop Patrick when he packs up his things. He takes a speedboat to the mainland, and a car to the airport, to board the first flight he could book that will get him out of the resort, off of the island, out of Indonesia, and carry him as far from the tropics and memories of David as he can possibly get. 

*

Patrick is taking a break from bonefishing in the Bahamas, treating himself to some alone time in one of the private residences at the Dunmore Hotel. It’s been six months since David, and he’s still depressed, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he’s not. He tried to forget by throwing himself into some good hunting, but that did absolutely nothing. Neither did a three week safari into the bush in Namibia. Fucking the brains out of every guy he met in Rio or Berlin didn’t do him much good either, and the recent camping trip with some buddies in the Rockies was a bust too. 

It turns out, you can’t shoot or camp or fuck or drink your way out of the inconvenient truth that you were walked out on by a stranger you fell in love with on a beach in Southeast Asia. 

So now, he’s renting the most expensive solo villa he can find, and he’s going to sit here and stare at the ocean until he feels better. Or something. 

He’s looking out at the sand, feeling sorry for himself, when someone calls his name. 

“ _ Patrick _ ? Oh my god!” 

He stares at the woman standing 20 feet from his back porch before he can place her.  _ Klair _ , of all the fucking people…

“Hi, Klair.” Patrick’s line lurches. Of course he would run into one of them at this socialite hell. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” she says, overly familiar, walking up to his deck and inviting herself to sit, as though she has no idea one of her friends ripped out Patrick’s heart and packed it up in his suitcase when he left.

Maybe she doesn’t. 

He grits his teeth. “Oh, you know, just trying to get some alone time.”

She doesn’t take the hint. 

“Okay, well, Brian rented this yacht for tonight, because we were just soooo bored, and we figured, what the hell, let’s have a  _ random _ party. So, are you coming?” She doesn’t pause for breath. 

“Oh, I don’t know Brian.” It’s a weak excuse. 

Klaire stares at him. “Okay, so, I’ll see you tonight?” 

“No, I don’t think—” 

“No, you’re coming. You’re coming,” she says, standing up. She makes her way down the path to the beach as quickly as she came up, and turns back at the end. “We leave at 11! Can’t wait!” 

*

Patrick doesn’t know what possesses him to go — he dropped the Yes Man philosophy after Indonesia — except that the party couldn’t possibly be worse than the three hours he spent staring at his ceiling earlier that night, trying not to cry. 

And it’s...well it isn’t fun, but there’s loud music, and dancing, and good food, and he’s a little buzzed while everyone else is sloshed, and he’s had worse nights, recently. They’re all congregated at the front of the boat, because the lights are busted in the back and, to quote Klair, “I want to be able to see my drink.” 

And so Patrick makes vapid conversation with people he vaguely recognizes, and has another glass of champagne, while Michael tells a ghost story about the “haunted island” that’s just appeared on the horizon, just distinguishable by the edges lit by the waxing moon.

“And I’m telling you,” Michael says, and he’s well on his was to being sloshed, “that island — that island is more dangerous than the Bermuda triangle! You go there and—.” He makes a slashing motion over this throat. 

“Ew, Michael! That story does  _ not  _ pass the vibe check!” Jenna screams, and the circle disperses in favor of louder, less scary activities. 

The story gave him the creeps, but the night picks up when he makes out with Klair’s friend — Andy maybe? — and then Josh, who he’d made out with in Phuket too, and who is an exceptionally good kisser. 

And then, all at once, the party is too much. So Patrick makes excuses at Josh, and slinks to the back of the yacht. It’s mercifully empty. It’s one of the ultra-nice yachts with a low platform deck for slipping into the water for a swim, so there’s no railing. He sits cross legged on the edge, ignoring the water soaking into his shorts. He leans against the wall of the boat, and sulks. 

They’re parallel with the island they saw earlier — can’t be more than half a mile from shore — and it’s much bigger than he’d gauged from a distance. He’s getting rusty, it seems. 

Patrick hears a crack in the distance that sounds like a gunshot, then another. He stands up to get a better look at the island. The deck is slippery with water from the wake, and Patrick is wearing flip flops with rubber soles. He stumbles, arms windmilling, and falls head first into the water. 

There are about five seconds when he doesn’t know which way is up, before his head clears the water. He tries frantically to swim for the boat, calling out, “Hey! Hey!,” before coming to his senses — the music is too loud and the boat is too fast, and he’s watching it get smaller and smaller in the distance. 

But Patrick would never have won all those titles if he were bad in a crisis. He gives himself till the count of ten to panic, and then swims off in the direction of the shore. 

*

Patrick reaches shore just after dawn. He’s exhausted. He got caught in two separate rip currents, and, by the time he realized he was stuck in the first one, he was barely any closer to shore than when he had been started. It had taken him hours to cross a relatively short distance.

There’s a treeline 20 feet up the shore, and he drags himself there to get under the shade of a tree before the sun gets strong. 

Just before he passes out, he sees what looks like a building off in the distance, but before he can consider what it might be, he’s asleep. 

He sleeps so deeply, he never hears the screams. 

*

When he wakes, it’s almost noon and he’s sunburnt — the shade of the trees was no match for his fair skin. Sitting up and stretching his weak limbs, he looks to the north where the structure from last night turns out to be a giant, glittering mansion on a bluff, like something out of an Agatha Christie mystery. 

He makes his way toward the house, sand hot under his bare feet, every muscle in his body protesting. He realizes how he’d missed it last night — the island has a sharp bend, and it had been hidden from the yacht. 

When he finally reaches the double doors, he knocks, praying he hadn’t hallucinated the shots last night and that someone actually lives here — it would be his luck if this was some billionaire’s two-weeks-per-year vacation home. 

Mercifully, a door swings open, and a short woman with curtains of dark hair framing her face stares at him. She’s utterly unfazed by his arrival. 

“Hi, um, I had a boating accident last night, and—” 

“Come in,” she says, her voice flat. She steps to the side to let him pass through the doorway. 

Inside, Patrick is struck by the gaudy interior. A marble staircase leads up to a second floor, and the parts of the ceiling that aren’t obscured by the giant chandelier are painted like it’s the goddamn sistine chapel. Above that, the skylight is covered in stained glass, somehow? 

“You could use a shower,” the woman says from behind him. It’s a statement, not a question, and she leads him wordlessly into the house, past the marble staircase, and into one of the rooms opening off of the giant hall. They pass through what looks like a study, the walls a dark burgundy, adorned with some of the most exquisite animal heads he’s ever seen, interspersed with old-fashioned oil portraits. 

“Is this your house?” he asks, though he’s pretty sure it isn’t. But he knows how to work these rich people — always indirect questions. Beat around the bush enough, and you’ll get your answers. 

But the woman either doesn’t hear him or chooses to ignore him, gait never slowing, so Patrick barely has a few seconds to take in the room before they’re turning right down a hallway, and left down another, until she comes to a halt in front of a wooden door. 

“The bathroom is fully stocked, and there’s clothes in the dresser. I’ll bring you some food.” 

With that, she’s gone. 

*

He eats the food that Stevie brings him, but before he can do anything else, he collapses on the bed and sleeps till morning.

*

Patrick finishes dressing, the baby blue button up a surprisingly good fit, and wanders back out into the house. He takes a few wrong turns, but eventually finds his way back to the study. He’d been right earlier — these are some of the most incredible heads he’s ever seen. There’s a Cape buffalo, and a cougar, at least four deer including one with antlers so big they can’t be real, and a few animals he’s never even  _ seen  _ before. The oil portraits dotted between them compliment the decor perfectly, though the subjects are a bit odd. The giant portrait in the center of a stately man with grey hair and great eyebrows in a well tailored suit makes sense, but the scraggly blonde man with a mullet and flannel shirt is a particularly strange choice. Then again, Patrick has seen the eccentric wealthy dress stranger. 

“Stunning, no?” a voice says from behind him. 

Patrick turns to see a woman in a white gown, standing in the doorway. He has to blink a few times before he can register who he’s looking at. 

“ _ Moira Rose _ ?” Moira Rose, the most famous hunter in the world. Patrick doesn’t know how to process it. “But I thought you were—” 

“Dead?” she laughs, a high, throaty  _ ha ha _ ! “Fear not, dear — she hath risen!” She lifts one arm higher than the other in a pose, like a bat unfurling its wings. It could be charming, but he finds it unsettling. 

Patrick tries to recalibrate. Is he still on the beach, having a heat stroke hallucination? Is he drowning, and all this just some wild, incoherent tale that his dying brain is concocting to distract him from the lack of oxygen? 

“But how?” 

Patrick remembers when he heard the news. He was at breakfast with a roomful of hunters, in pre-season for the World Coyote Competition, when someone had gotten a call. The quiet had spread through the room like ripples in a pond. A roomful of professional, award-winning hunters, trained in stealth, and Patrick had never heard them so quiet in his life. 

In the weeks that followed, the hunting community was split — the nasty, sexist men thought she’d had it coming; everyone else grieved. 

But what had always stuck with Patrick was the silence. It had been almost reverent. 

Standing in front of her now, even through his shock, Patrick understands. 

“Just a little misdirection — the populace will believe  _ anything  _ if you give them a good enough show. It’s not known by many, but I was an amateur thespian in my day. Oh, the industry begged me for my prodigious talents, but no — the hunt was the only true love of my life.” 

At a loss for what to say, Patrick looks back up at the mounted heads. “This one is beautiful,” he says, pointing. 

“My late husband, bless him. Stunning, wasn’t he?” She’d thought he meant the oil painting.

Patrick fumbles. “Oh, no, I meant — I mean, yes, he looks like he was quite handsome — but I meant the game — that’s a Cross River gorilla, isn’t it?” 

Moira smirks. Patrick isn’t sure if he missed a joke. “It is indeed. But enough gabbling! You must be famished. I’ll have Stevie prepare a petit repas for you. The dining room is just through there. Please, make yourself comfortable.” 

*

Patrick follows Moira’s vague directions out of the study and across the Entrance Hall. There are at least eight rooms off it, and each one seems to twist into more rooms. He’s poking his head in and out of each one in turn, and is about to pick one at random to walk through when he hears steady footsteps behind him.

He turns to ask for directions, but the words die in his mouth when he sees the shock of dark hair and eyebrows coming down the stairs. It takes him five seconds before he finds his voice. 

“ _ David _ ?”

David, who had been looking down at the book in his hand as he descended, freezes on the last step. He stares at Patrick like a deer caught in headlights, mouth hanging open and eyes round as quarters. And then weirder still, he composes himself, face setting to neutral. David opens and closes his mouth a few times. Then he shakes his head and, before Patrick can do or say anything else, he rushes out the front door without a word.

Patrick is still rooted in place when David slams the door behind him so loudly that the chandelier shakes. 

In a daze, he tries to find the dining room, and comes up on a window overlooking what seems to be a giant dog enclosure a couple stories below. There’s a blond man with what looks like a red medic bag, kneeling over a dark brown dog. Patrick shifts his eyes further out, and he sees David gesturing wildly at, he realizes with another start, Alexis. 

“Mister Brewer?” 

He turns to see the same dark haired woman, staring at him with the same bland expression. 

“Your food is in the dining room. Follow me.” 

*

_ “One thing, Alexis. I’ve asked you for one fucking thing in ten years.” _

_“David, this was_ your _idea!”_

_ “Yeah, it was, and then I told you I didn’t want to do it anymore!”  _

_ “God, David, this is so dramatic. You’ve literally never had a problem before. You’re acting like you’re in love with him or something.” _

_ —  _

_ “Oh. David. I’m sorry—”  _

_ “Fuck you, Alexis.”  _

*

Patrick doesn’t see David or Alexis again the rest of the afternoon. He walks around the grounds, making sure to give the dog enclosure a wide-berth while the dogs all bark at him en masse, but all he finds are some seagulls, a dirty old boot, and, on the walking path at the back of the house, a smallish molar from an animal Patrick doesn’t recognize. He goes back to his room after that. 

A knock on his bedroom door around 4pm turns out to be the pale woman again — Stevie, he finds out — with an invitation from Moira to join her for dinner. 

While Patrick whiles away the time in his room, suddenly too uncomfortable at the thought of seeing either of the siblings, he remembers something David had told him in Indonesia. 

_ “My bes—this woman I know, Stevie. She was my mom’s personal assistant at the time. So, my mom had worn a real fur coat to a PETA fundraiser—” _

_ “What?!”  _

_ “I know,” David says, already laughing. “I know. She heard ‘Peter’ fundraiser, and somehow decided it must be Peter Bogdanovich.”  _

_ “That’s certainly a choice. But wait, you were saying, Stevie?”  _

_ “Oh my god, yes. You can imagine the carnage of the night — hot coffee, blood everywhere, a disaster. And the next week, their car was egged. She dragged Stevie along to the police station as her ‘witness,’ and then insisted Stevie couldn’t be spotted ‘lest the culprits be surveilling,’ so she made Stevie crouch down in the car while she drove. Stevie almost crashed the car twice. And then, it turned out, it was just some ex of Alexis’s who was feeling petty and egged our car.”  _

Patrick wanders out of his room just before 6pm, making his way across the house without any more surprises, and he’s finally breathing easy when he walks into the dining room to find David and Alexis seated. With them is the dog guy Patrick had seen earlier that day and, oddly, Stevie. 

He stops in his tracks. 

“Hi, Patrick,” Alexis says, smiling, like this is normal, like he didn’t just run into the love of his life and his friend on a random Caribbean island after falling off a yacht in the middle of the night. 

It’s the anger that helps him find his voice. “Okay, so we’re really just going to pretend like everything is fine?” he says, looking from Alexis to David, the latter of whom won’t make eye contact. “Like this isn’t weird, and that nobody ditched me in the middle of the night? And that’s not even touching all of—” 

“Parker! So glad you could join us. I was worried perhaps you needed a longer respite after your arduous midnight dip,” Moira says with a twinkling laugh, gliding into the room. She’s dressed in head-to-toe black leather cape, hood pulled up over an oversized, curly wig. It makes her look like a witch. “Please, have a seat.” She points at the chair between the head of the table and Alexis. The only mercy he’s shown from the universe is that David is on the far end of the table away from him. “Have you met Theodore? Our young veterinarian,” she smiles at the man, who gives her a nervous smile back. “I don’t know where we’d be without him.” 

The vet then turns to look at Patrick, and the smile looks a bit more genuine. “Ted,” he says, and gives a little wave. “It’s  _ ice  _ to meet you,” he says, cheersing the air with a glass filled with mostly ice. 

Dinner is tense. David only speaks when spoken to, and continues to avoid looking at Patrick. Alexis tries for chit chat that no one reciprocates. Stevie is silent. 

Ted, however, tries to break the ice at one point. “So Patrick, how long were you and David—” 

“Were he and David what?” Moira asks with raised eyebrows. 

“Y’know,” Ted says with a meaningful nod, and makes a crude hang gesture that makes Patrick, already red in the face, choke on his potatoes. 

“What an elegant gesture, Ted,” David says, while Stevie and Alexis stifle laughs. 

No one knows what to say after that, the room silent but for the clinking of forks and knives against their plates. 

And finally, after the tensest 45 minutes of Patrick’s life, David and Alexis get into a fight over whose turn it is to do the dishes — though Patrick would have expected, with their wild wealth, that they had people to do that. 

“No, David, sorry, it’s absolutely your turn. And, besides, I just did a new gel manicure today and like, I can’t get them wet.” 

“That’s  _ absolutely _ not how gel works, but you know what? Whatever. You do whatever you want anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.” He stands up, pushing his seat back roughly as he goes, and throws his napkin on the table. “I’ve had enough for today. Good night, everyone,” David storms off, still never having looked Patrick in the eye. 

Silently, Stevie stands up to clear the table, and Ted jumps up to help. Alexis, taking the out, stands up right after Ted and slips out of the dining room, pausing to boop Patrick on the nose on the way out. 

*

_ “Get the fuck out of my room, Alexis.” _

_ “We need to talk.”  _

_ “What could we possibly have to talk about?”  _

_ “I’m sorry about the fight, I needed mum to think we weren’t talking or whatever. Ted and I have a plan.”  _

_ “You have a plan? You? Great. Let’s hear it, Alexis. Are we—”  _

_ “No, David, stop. Listen. We have a plan to get out.”  _

_ “Get out? Alexis, I have been begging you to leave for years. And now what? You’re just going to abandon me here with mom? That’s what you came to tell me? What kind of a  _ sociopath—”

_ “David — no. Not me and Ted. All of us.”  _

*

Patrick breathes a little easier once it’s just him and Moira left. This is still the weirdest fucking experience of his life — and that’s saying something, because he once went hunting with Elon Musk and Richard Branson — but at least the painfully awkward tension has left the room with everyone else. 

“Do you still hunt?” It seems like a silly question once he asks, but he needed something to break the ice. Plus, Patrick can’t imagine a life without hunting. He can’t imagine how she would have given it up. 

“Oh, yes. Right here on this very isle. I brought the very best game to me.” 

Patrick can’t imagine what she could have imported that proved enough of a challenge, and could survive the Caribbean heat. “Leopards?” he guesses. They tolerated rough weather, and they were prone to attacking huntsmen. 

“No, I’ve managed to secure a steady supply of the most  _ dangerous _ big game.” There’s a glint in her eye when she smiles that’s somehow familiar to Patrick. 

“Most dangerous? I’ve always thought Cape buffalos were the most dangerous of the big game. I saw the one you have mounted in the study. It’s beautiful.” 

“Not the Cape buffalo, dear. Those are old hat. No  _ thrill _ in it, anymore, you understand? No, here I import only the best. The only animal that stands a chance at outsmarting me. I yearn for danger, for  _ challenge _ .” Moira sips her wine.

“What do you hunt, then?” 

She smiles, bright red lips making way for a toothy smile. It’s unsettling. “You, I've heard a lot about, , you know.  _ Quite _ the reputation you’ve built for yourself. Dispiriting when you abandoned the game.” 

He’s about to argue that he’d only given up competitions, not hunting all together. But then Patrick thinks again of Rachel, and the life he left behind, and he concedes the point. “I was...restless. I needed a change.” 

“Ah,” she says, and the smile is understanding this time. “A most perspicuous sentiment. I too had grown weary. Easier to let everyone think I gave up the ghost than have them chasing after me with offers of glory. There was no amusement left in it for me.” 

Patrick nods. He’d started to think that might be the direction he was headed. 

“But then, I solved the problem,” she continues. “I injected complexity back into the game.” 

“Oh, we'll have some capital hunting, you and I," says his host, nodding her head slowly. "I shall be  _ most _ content to have your society."

"But what—” Patrick starts. 

Moira smiles at him again, wider this time, and it makes the words die in his throat. It’s  _ chilling _ . 

"It's amusing, you know, hunters. Always tiring of the quotidian prey, always searching for the more harrowing game. When, in fact, the answer is right in front of us all along.”

She watches him from over her wine glass, and Patrick remembers how weird it was to run into Klair, and the gunshots he’d heard from the boat, how easily he’d slipped and fallen. That the shirt in the closet had been his size, and that he’d found a molar earlier that day. He remembers Alexis perking up when he’d been introduced as a hunter, and her incredibly volatile fights with David. And now that he’s thinking about it, he remembers how he’d heard about the Dunmore Hotel at all. 

_ They were laying on the beach tanning when Alexis rolled over, looking over Patrick to talk to her brother.  _

_ “You know what this reminds me of, David?”  _

_ “What?”  _

_ “The Dunmore. Have you been there, Patrick?”  _

_ “The what?” He didn’t bother opening his eyes or turning his head, laying flat on his back, shoulder to shoulder with David.  _

_ “Oh my god. The Dunmore Hotel. It’s in the Bahamas. I thought maybe you’d stayed there after a fishing trip — my ex used to go bonefishing there, he loved it.”  _

_ “I’ve never been bonefishing,” he says, voice lazy from the sun.  _

_ She gasps in delight, and bats him on his already-burning shoulder. “Excuse me? Are you telling me I know something about hunting that the World Famous Patrick Brewer doesn’t?”  _

_ Patrick finally turns his head to face her and smiles. “Thanks for the tip, Alexis. I’ll have to check it out.”  _

Suddenly, it becomes incredibly clear his arrival on the island was orchestrated. And it’s an absurd conclusion to come to, but Patrick can’t think of any other reason than — 

“Moira...no.” He stops himself. The weirdness of today must be getting to him. He can’t believe he’s actually considering that this woman might...might— 

“But why not?” Moira asks, and she still _ has not stopped smiling _ . “You yourself must have felt it, the ennui that settles deep in your bones when you realize there’s no  _ thrill _ left? If not, why would you have quit?” 

There are a lot of reasons why Patrick left — most of them Rachel. But, if he’s honest with himself, the boredom wasn’t  _ just _ Rachel. He could pick out a deer moving in brown bush 400 meters away. His aim was perfect. Even his knife throws always hit their target. Moira was right — there was no excitement left. 

Patrick catches himself. What the hell is he saying? Sure, he was growing apathetic, but the solution isn’t  _ this _ . 

“Moira, that’s murder.  _ How _ ?” 

“It’s easy, dear,” she says lightly. “You just have to be a better hunter than they are prey.” 

Patrick thinks the world must be collapsing in on itself. His vision is going black around the edges and he’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent his life around some callous assholes, but to watch someone just casually talk about murder is — 

“So, what do you think?” Moira says, looking him in the eye so intently that he has to force away the tunnel vision and focus. “Will you be better than the hunter, Patrick?”

When Patrick hunts, his senses are so sharp, they’re sometimes overwhelming. He can hear the crinkle of leaves from forty feet away, spot a tiny animal moving from so far people used to think he was lying. When he hunts, the whole world quiets but for his focus on his target. But Patrick had never stopped to wonder what he would feel like if the roles were reversed. 

As it turns out, remarkably similar. The world goes silent, stifled by a blanket, and all that exists is Moira Rose, cold blue eyes smiling down at him. 

Patrick doesn’t remember the last time his head was so clear. 

“You have three days, dear. If you evade me for three days, I’ll have you on the next boat back to the port of your choice.” 

She walks to the window, and beckons Patrick to join her. Down in the courtyard, Patrick sees the pen of hunting dogs again, lit bright by nearby fluorescent lights. From here, he can make out what must be thirty of them. 

“Those are my girls,” Moira says proudly, like she’s bragging about her own children. Patrick realizes belatedly what it means that Moira has  _ hunting dogs _ . “That’s Cindy,” she says pointing, voice almost cooing. “And there’s Maureen, and Kristen, and oooh, that’s my dear baby Robin.” She turns to Patrick. “She’s the newest of the bunch.” 

“The dogs hardly seem fair, Moira,” he says, turning to look at her. Every corner of his brain is screaming, but he can’t find an alternative. The only way out is through. He’s going to be hunted. “What happened to a fair fight?”

She grins, delighted. “I’m sure the mountain goats thought the same thing, dear.” She turns to leave. “Stevie will make your pack. You can choose your own knife from the armory. You’ll leave at dawn. And just to be fair, I’ll give you a three hour head start. ” 

*

Patrick doesn’t sleep so much as close his eyes and weave in and out of nightmares. 

He wakes around midnight up to find David sitting above him on the bed. His screams are stifled by David’s palm held roughly over his mouth, David pressing a finger from the other hand to his own lips. When David is sure that Patrick has stopped screaming, he moves his hand. 

“I didn’t realize you were into kink play, David,” Patrick says. The joke slips out of him unbidden. “We could’ve had a lot more fun together.” 

The corners of David’s mouth twitch, but the restrained smile never meets his eyes. In a hushed whisper, he speaks rapidly. “Listen to me, because she’s already taking her sleeping pill, but we can’t risk the off-chance that she wakes up. I didn’t bring you here, and I know you have  _ no _ reason to believe me, but it’s the truth.” He pauses for a second. “That’s—that’s why I left,” he says, his eyes boring into Patrick’s. He takes a deep breath. “I know this is fucking hoirrifying, and my mom is evil, but she keeps her word — make it three days, and she’ll let you go. If I try to sneak you out, she’ll kill us both. I can’t save you, but I can help you make it the three days.” 

Patrick’s adrenaline is still pumping; it’s difficult to speak. “Why the hell should I believe you, David?” 

“You shouldn’t,” David says with a shrug. “But you also won’t survive without me. I don’t care how good you are. Mom plays dirty. Who do you know who can survive against thirty trained hounds?” 

David’s eyes are still boring into him. He correctly interprets Patrick’s silence. 

“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do.” 

*

At 6am the next morning, Stevie meets him at the front door with a backpack and a meaningful look. 

“Everything you need should be in here,” she says, opens the door for him to step outside, and then shuts it in his face. 

The island is large, but Patrick moves quickly, even when he’s covering his tracks. He’s making the most of the three hour head start Moira promised him. 

Last night, David gave him a breakdown of every hiding place on the island, and their risks. 

_ “How’s your stamina?” David asks.  _

_ “Oh, I think you have a better gauge of my stamina than most people,” Patrick says, unable to stop the jokes even on pain of death, apparently. It earns him a thwack on the head, before David breaks down the easiest place to lay low.  _

There is a safe house across the island, and Patrick can make it there by late afternoon if he moves quickly, only stops for a few minutes to inhale some food from his pack, and cuts through the thick jungle on the south side of the island. 

He does his best to throw her off the trail. At one point he spends an hour wading barefoot through a shallow creek, water barely above his ankles, before finding a place suitably far away, slipping his dry shoes back on, hustling to make up time. At another point, when the trees are close enough together but low enough to keep him hidden, he covers a few hundred yards climbing tree to tree. But mostly, he’s hoping his speed will save him — Moira Rose may be the best, but Patrick is half her age, and eventually, she’ll have to turn back to rest. 

It takes eight grueling hours, but he finds the safehouse on the edge of a clearing, exactly where David said it would be. It’s close enough to the edge of the jungle that he can hear the waves lapping against the shore, but still hidden behind enough thicket that he’d never have found it on his own.

After ensuring he’s covered up the tracks up to the house, he slips inside the cabin, grateful to find it unlocked —  _ of course it’s unlocked _ , he reminds himself,  _ he’s on fucking Murder Island, population six, and only the Roses are supposed to know the cabin exists _ — and collapses on a chair, shoes in hand so he doesn’t track in a speck of dirt. He gives himself ten minutes to catch his breath, before he gets up to recalibrate. 

Looking around the cabin properly for the first time, he sees the Roses have spared no expense on the single-room hut. The walls are paneled in wood, an antique fire screen in front of the brick fireplace on the back wall, and an honest-to-god four poster bed with real curtains, not mosquito nets. 

Unwilling to risk getting too comfortable, Patrick cracks a couple windows to air out the smell, and works on unpacking and inventorying what he has left in his pack. True to their word, Patrick has been given plenty of food and water for three strenuous days, a change of clothes, a small first aid kit, a tightly rolled sleeping bag. But he’s also got a hammock, a small towel, and even a pen knife, in addition to the full-sized knife he’d chosen from Moira’s collection sheathed in his belt. 

Repacking everything, he looks longingly at the bed, but he isn’t enough of a fool to even consider getting in it, no matter how deliriously tired he is. Instead, he pops a couple caffeine pills and gets up to stretch. 

Patrick the distance is too far, and there’s no chance of Moira reaching him by nightfall. But Patrick hasn’t won a dozen World Champion hunting titles by being complacent — if he gets comfortable, he gets caught. 

After changing his clothes, he takes the large backpack and carefully shoves it up the chimney, relying on the compression to hold it in place. 

Twilight is creeping in, and Patrick decides to hold out three more hours before risking moving or sleeping. 

_ “She takes a sleeping pill at 10pm every night. Make it till then, live to see another day,” David tells him. Patrick wonders how many levels of deeply fucked he must be if David’s dark humor still makes him laugh in the middle of all of this. _

Very carefully, he washes the sand and dirt off of his shoes in the kitchen sink, taking care to pour some alcohol down the drain, and then rinsing that down too. Once the rubber soles are bone dry, he slips them back on. 

He’s running through the plan for tomorrow when everything goes quiet. Not a horror movie quiet, though at this point he wouldn’t be surprised, but...animal quiet. Like they’ve heard a predator and scattered.

Patrick springs into action. As quietly as possible, he shuts the two windows, makes a quick scan that everything is in place, and crawls into the fireplace. Taking care to pull the screen back into place, he does something he hasn’t done since he was drunk in his college dorms, and he crawls vertically up the walls and crams himself in place right below his pack, feet pushed against one side of the chimney wall, back pressed against the other. He barely fits. He’s never been so grateful to be 5’ 6” in his life. 

Not a minute later, he hears the front door creak open, and slow, light footsteps. The moon is out, and looking down, Patrick can see shadows carrying across the floor and into the fireplace, getting darker as they move toward him.

Taking slow, shallow breaths, even Patrick can’t hear his own breathing. The tips of Moira’s boots appear in his line of sight, dark leather with rounded toes, and the antique screen moves. But before Patrick can make a decision to drop down on her — the element of surprise is the last thing he has left — Moira’s hand waves in the fireplace, like she’s feeling for a residual heat from a fire, and then disappears from sight. She doesn’t replace the screen. 

He hears the front door creak again, and he finally lets out the breath he’s been holding. But, just before the door slams shut, Moira says, voice echoing in the room: 

“Oh, this is fun. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a worthy adversary. I won’t smoke you out today, Peter. See you in the morning.” 

*

_ “If that doesn’t work,” David says. “Then we move to Plan B.”  _

_ Patrick waits expectantly, but David is quiet. “Yes?”  _

_ “Plan B is fucked, so you’d better hope you don’t need it. How are you with botany?”  _

On the northwest corner of the island, not far from the house, is a poison garden. Like he wasn’t already living some 19th century murder mystery novel. Patrick couldn’t have dreamt this shit up his wildest dreams: Moira Rose cultivates a garden of all the most poisonous plants native to the Caribbean — and some invasive species, too. 

Patrick lets himself nap for a few hours, praying that Moira will keep to her word and spare him till morning. As soon as he wakes up, he sets off, following the trail north along the sand. Covering his tracks won’t matter today. 

He takes to the far side of the island, just in case. 

Patrick looks up at the cloudless sky and says a prayer to a god he’s pretty sure he doesn’t believe in that it won’t rain. 

*

The entire plan hinges on a Death Apple Tree, hidden among the guava, Spanish limes, and soursop trees. 

Manchineels, their more innocuous name, produce sap so dangerous that standing under them during rain will give you severe burning and blisters, and, if you’re lucky, temporary blindness. It’s thought that Ponce de Leon died after being shot with an arrow poisoned with dried manchineel powder. So, at least one good thing has come from them. 

Patrick is going to pretend to eat a death apple. 

_ “So you want me to be Snow White? Is Prince Charming going to come kiss me back to life?” _

_ David snorts. “If I kiss you after you spend time in that garden, my face will probably peel off.”  _

Patrick comes up on the orchard just before sunrise and gets to work. 

*

Facedown in a bush, inches away from a pool of his own forced vomit, fruit strategically carved and placed visible by his side, Patrick waits. 

*

He hears the soft  _ crunch crunch _ of careful footsteps approaching, and then halting. 

Moira tuts. “What a shame. What a damn shame.” 

Patrick waits until he’s sure she’s retreated, and then waits another 15 minutes. Hours facedown in a Christmas bush was an awful task — when he sits up, he can tell the Vaseline on the side of his face has only worked so well. Patches of skin are burning and he’s sure he can feel blisters. Carefully, he wipes down the side of his face with the small towels, and rubs on some of the ointment Ted slipped him as he made his way off of the property yesterday. It burns like hell, but the medicine starts to work immediately. 

Reluctant to waste any more time, lest Moira come to double check, Patrick moves as quickly as his aching body will allow, once again covering his tracks as he moves. 

*

Late that afternoon, he strings up a hammock across the highest, sturdiest branches he can find deep in the thicket of the jungle. All he can do is hope he chose wisely. 

*

After a real night of sleep, Patrick is sore but energized. He watches a flock of birds fly out of the treetops and high into the sky. He thinks of crows. 

_ “David, I think this is a ridiculous thing to care about, but I might be dead in ten hours so. Why did you lie? About your mom?” _

_ “Why didn’t I tell you my mom is a serial killer who wanted to hunt you for sport?” David’s eyebrows are at his hairline.  _

_ “You told me she was dead from eating a crow. It’s a pretty specific lie.”  _

_ “Oh.” He chews on his lip. “The crow part was real. She got really sick and she was just...never normal after that. She shot my dad two months later, and we covered it up as a hunting accident.” _

_ “What the f—” _

_ “Oh my god, we don’t have time for this. Hard life, crazy mother, wild emotional abuse. I know. Don’t look at me like that, Patrick,” he says when he catches Patrick looking at him sadly. “I’m just as fucked up. But I can at least help you.” He averts his eyes.  _

Just after dawn, Patrick packs up his things and heads of. And then, he does not stop moving. 

_ Patrick is armed with a mental map of the island, more information about poisonous plants than he — a hunter — ever thought he would need, and almost no reassurance from David.  _

_ “Do you think this is going to work?” Patrick asks.  _

_ “I have no idea. But if all else fails, run like hell. Just do not stop. She’ll bring the dogs out. Don’t let them catch your scent.”  _

Patrick hears the dogs well before he sees them. 

He runs like he’s never run in his life, but these are hunting dogs, and he’s prey. He doesn’t stand a chance. His only victory comes when he throws his knife behind him without turning — 27 years of hunting hadn’t been for nothing — and he hears a yelp. 

“No! Lorna! No!” 

The victory is short lived. 

The dogs chase him right up to the edge of a cliff. Cornered, he stares over the edge. He turns when he hears Moira’s footsteps coming around the bend a minute later, pistol in hand. The sky behind her is a brilliant swirl of pinks and oranges as the sun slides down the sky.

“Not quite good enough, Pat,” she says, smiling. 

“You don’t have to do this, Moira.” 

“Oh, no, we had a pact, my dear. But if it helps, you’re the first to elude me for this long. This  _ was _ fun.” 

She raises the pistol lazily, shaking her head disappointedly all the while.

She pulls the trigger. 

Her shot never hits. 

Patrick hasn’t won so many medals by getting lucky. 

You never —  _ never _ — give up. 

The air thunders in his ears as he swan dives straight into the water below. 

*

He’s been swimming for an hour. Patrick’s arms and legs are about to give up, when he finally rounds the far side of the cliff face, and the cove comes into view. The moon is bright tonight, but the bluff casts a shadow over the whole cove. With what little strength he has left, he blows out three, long whistles. 

Someone flashes a light in his face three times in response. Patrick swims toward it. 

As he reaches the boat, two sets of arms reach in to pull him out of the water. 

_ Patrick stares at him. “David, it’s impossible.”  _

_ “I know. But your options are try it my way, or die. Which is it going to be?”  _

_ All Patrick can do is slowly nod.  _

_ “There’s one last thing,” David says, looking at his hands. “Um, If you can hold her off...the last boat that capsized, it was in okay shape. Alexis and Stevie have been hiding it in the cove below the cliff — she never checks there.”  _

_ “I thought you said she’d let me go if I made it three days.”  _

_ David picks at the duvet cover on Patrick’s bed. “We um—you have literally no reason to do us a favor. I know that. Fuck knows you should leave us here to rot. But...but we’re going to try to go too. She keeps the key for the main boat, but now we have this one. I’ve been begging Alexis not to come back, but she wouldn’t leave Ted here, and we didn’t know if I could get him and Stevie out. This is the only way.” _

_ “Why can’t you just—” _

_ “Leave? We’ve tried. She’s never out for long enough. She’s got cameras everywhere. You’re the first person in years who might be able to keep her busy long enough for us to prep. And,” he says with humorless smile, “she’s in our fucking heads. I brought her here to protect her and she turned it into a prison.”  _

_ No, absolutely not. How the fuck can this guy be asking him for a favor when Patrick is hours away from being hunted and killed because these sociopaths—David looks up and meets his eyes again, holding his gaze. Patrick thinks of the last six, miserable months, and of the terrifying chill being stared down by Moira Rose. He’ll never forgive himself if he leaves David and Alexis here.  _

_ “Okay, David. What do I have to do?”  _

He’s huddled in a blanket on the bench on the bow of the ship, barely able to keep his eyes open, much less sit upright. They’ve been speeding away from the island for 20 minutes when Patrick, whose ears have won him trophies, hears it in the distance. 

“Um, guys?” he calls out over the drone of the motor. “Does your mom happen to know how to drive the boat herself?” 

“Yeah but — “ Alexis calls back. 

“We left her without gas,” David yells at the same time. 

David looks at Patrick sharply from where he’s sitting a few feet away. “Why?” 

“Because there’s a boat headed toward us.” 

Alexis and David look at each other. 

“No.” 

“ _ Fuck _ .” 

“That’s what was in the back of the shed.” 

“Fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck _ .” 

Alexis grabs Ted’s shoulder. “Babe, can you speed it up?” 

Ted looks back at them. “I’m trying, but the waves—” 

“Move over,” Alexis says, and pushes him aside. Grabbing the wheel with her left, she lays her weight into her right arm, pushing on the accelerator. 

But, a boat pulling five people is no match for a boat with a single passenger. Within 15 minutes, Moira is getting unnervingly close. 

“David, fuck!” Alexis says over the roar of the motor. “She’s going to catch us. I can’t go any faster.” 

“We have to talk to her,” he says back, close to her ear. “It’s our only option.” Louder, he calls out to the others. “Alexis is going to cut the engine. Everyone just get in the front and get down.” 

David and Alexis look at each other, and Alexis nods, slowing them down, and cutting the engine. 

“David,” Stevie calls to him from the seat across from Patrick. It’s the first thing she’s said all night. “I have my gun. Here.” 

David looks from Stevie to the gun and hesitates. “No. We can — we can talk to her. She’ll listen.” 

“David! No she won’t!” She looks helplessly at David, who looks at her a moment longer, and turns around. 

But Alexis from her brother to Stevie, and takes the gun with steady hands, but when she turns back to watch the boat approaching, she stands next to David and keeps her arm at her side. 

Stevie reaches for Ted and points at the spot behind the passenger side panel where he can crouch and be shielded from view.

Patrick can see he’s about to protest, but Alexis turns around one last time. “Babe. Please. You have to.” Her meaning is plain — Moira won’t hesitate to hurt them, but she might not hurt her kids. 

Stevie pulls Patrick down behind the driver’s side panel, and crouches with him, shielding both of them from view. 

Moira reaches them in two minutes. When she cuts her engine, the only sound is the gentle lapping of water against the boat. David pushes Alexis back and steps in front of her. Patrick can see her from where he’s hidden, eyes just barely clearing the console. 

“You stole my boat, David.” The full moon casts stark shadows on her face. Her face is set, eyes boring into David. 

Even with his back to them, David’s voice is clear. “Mmm, actually, you’re in your boat. This was Miguel’s boat.” 

Moira’s expression never wavers. “What  _ exactly _ is it that you think you’re doing? Saving your beaus? Is that it? You were just going to abandon mummy, after everything I’ve  _ done _ for you?” Her voice grows increasingly shrill. She laughs. “I don’t  _ think _ so.” Moira raises a gun.

Alexis tries to get out from behind him, but David flings an arm out to keep her back. He doesn’t back down from Moira. “Everything  _ you’ve  _ done? Because  _ I _ was the one who saved you from rotting in jail after you  _ murdered dad _ .  _ I _ was the one who got you to the island. Alexis and I were the ones who were  _ human trafficking  _ a steady stream of international men for you to murder. And still, I was  _ constantly  _ worried about you. So  _ fuck you _ , mom.” David’s hands are flying through the air now, fury radiating white hot. 

“Absolutely not,” Stevie mumbles to herself. Patrick hears the  _ click  _ of a safety being turned off. He turns in time to see Stevie. 

“Goodbye, David,” Moira says, and points the gun to shoot, at the same moment as Stevie leaps up from behind the dashboard, revolver in hand. She has a clear shot. And now, attention diverted, so does Moira. 

Patrick pulls his head back from view. 

There’s a single, booming shot. Screams. A thud. And then, silence. 

When the ringing in his ears passes, the only sound is the gentle lapping of water against the boat. 

**Author's Note:**

> I figured I was going to be excommunicated from fandom for this anyway, so I may as well go out with a bang. 
> 
> It takes a village, folks. And by a village, I mean all three (3) of my betas, who read over this twice, after getting stuck with a friend who texts them on a Saturday night and says, "okay but what about a Most Dangerous Game AU, and Moira is the hunter?" A specific thank you to Aulauem for the brilliant poison garden idea, and to helvetica_upstart for the frankly _inspired_ suggestion that the dogs be named after Moira's wigs. And to ships_to_sail for her relentless positivity but also this entire gd challenge that spurred the idea in the first place. I love all three of you a WHOLE lot. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented on this while it was anonymous and assured me I did not, in fact, have to go into hiding myself.


End file.
